


Tell her while she's here still

by sweettasteofbitter



Series: when in the springtime of the year [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 02:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5565271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweettasteofbitter/pseuds/sweettasteofbitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Confessing the feelings closest to her heart in the midst of pressing times leaves even Josephine at a loss for words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell her while she's here still

They will leave for Adamant the next morning.

"They" being the soldiers, prepared to face the onset of a demon army. "They" also includes many of the people Josephine has come to consider as friends, but most of all it includes Cassandra, and- no, no, she will not think about that. She has only about enough willpower to drown out that thought, and she will inevitably let it engulf her when the party leaves in the early hours after dawn, but for now, she will not think about it.

Josephine feels the weight of the world on her shoulders. There are times when she is capable of pretending it doesn't, and those are her strongest moment as diplomat, while as a person, she suffers.

The unhealthy tension permeating the air in Skyhold spreads like a disease, stifling breaths and heating blood as effectively as any fever is capable of doing. While the pressure motivates some of the soldiers, its lean fingers also slide around Josephine's throat, pulling tighter with every step she takes. Dread fills her stomach when she greets people and gets a jittery, forced smile in return, or when she hears the laughter that hails from the tavern and it seems less boisterous than usual to her ears.

Leliana has been watching her ravens and runners for messages with little to no breaks in between, the dark circles under her eyes the proof of her vigilance. She has been excruciatingly hard on herself ever since Haven, and she cannot afford to make mistakes. No one can afford to make mistakes; there is a world at stake. (Still, it hurts Josephine to see her friend like this, so absorbed in her work there is no time for even the smallest of smiles.)

Cullen has been drilling his troops in the courtyard from dusk till dawn, and, as tempting as it has been at times, Josephine has not complained once. After all, they finally have something worth practicing for. If it could save only one soldier's life, it is enough to bear the headache she gets from swords bashing against shields, against swords, against shields.

This battle is not exactly something she has ever wished to be involved in directly. She procured the trebuchets that will be used in the siege, but that is the only credit she will take. She does not look forward to notifying all the families of those soldiers that are lost - for there will be casualties, it's unavoidable.

She has many questions and even more worries. What if they do not succeed? What if the demon army is unleashed upon the world? The image of the fade spewing all its demonic filth across the land until it is left barren and spoils all that was ever pure, is enough for Josephine to grasp onto her clipboard tighter than usual.

The idea that she will be nearly alone in Skyhold does nothing to ease her mind, either. Of course she isn't completely left to her own devices; there are guards left to defend the parameters of the castle, and visitors of high or low rank who can wield a sword of a dagger. Leliana will stay, watching from her tower with only her ravens to keep her company. It would be incorrect to say the Adamant-bound soldiers are leaving behind an undefended stronghold.

Yet, for all that Josephine wishes for the place to be…well, not quieter, but _gentler_ sometimes, she doesn't look forward to noticing the lack of familiar faces crossing the courtyard.

This is a chance to meet new people, she tells herself, her rhetoric drowned out by the voices of concern that rise within her; it is a lot less enjoyable getting acquainted with people when there's a battle being fought in a far corner of the map. Already, the one thing constantly on her mind is that she cannot control the outcome, and that she can only pace and hope. If her prayers aren't enough, they aren't enough. (Of course this is highly irrational. She cannot steer the course of events that way, and there are a thousand voices calling out for the Maker, so her worshipping might go unnoticed, yet another prayer murmured among the masses.)

It isn't as though she doesn't have anything to do to distract herself – quite the opposite, her workload seems to have doubled over the course of a short few weeks. Unfortunately the golden lined invitations to the Winter Palace have been taken care of, or she would have worked herself in a frenzy to secure them, doubling her ambassadorial efforts for the greater good. She should be relieved that this task is no longer on her schedule, but it could have helped her to _forget_ , or at least to push time forward quicker for a scant couple of hours.

She's grateful she doesn't have to spend that evening's dinner with dignitaries, granting her the time to mindlessly trace the rim of her glass as she stares into the distance. In most nations it is considered an offense not to eat everything that has been served, but Josephine's throat is dry, and she chews until the Orlesian-style potatoes stick to her palate and refuse to be swallowed. She shoves her plate forward with the subtlest of gestures before excusing herself. This earns her a sympathetic look from the Inquisitor, who is seated across from her.

Although there is a chance she will not sleep a single minute, Josephine decides to have an early night.

When Cassandra follows Josephine back to her chambers after a day of training and prayer, looking strong and sure and as ready as she ever will be, Josephine cannot pretend that nothing is wrong. Their courtship has reached the phase where they are both aware of what the other wants and needs, and although compromise has to be reached sometimes, they generally work through their differences in opinion and personality without as much as a wrinkle. Josephine presents Cassandra with the sadness on her face that has been hidden underneath the thin veneer of a professional mien for days.

"What's wrong?" Cassandra asks, and to Josephine's regret and utter embarrassment she cannot present her with an immediate answer. Josephine is usually a stickler for conversation and embraces it as the foremost skill to use in any given situation, but the constant state of anxiety she has been in has made her wary of her own tongue. Tonight, Cassandra doesn't receive as much of an explanation as she might have expected. Josephine is at a rare and uncomfortable loss for words, wringing her hands and looking slightly forlorn.

_Oh Maker, if her words aren't there to save her, then truly all hope is lost._

She can only tentatively piece together why she is so reluctant to give voice to the shroud of anxiety that covers her. She fears, and fears deeply, but she doesn't broach the subject. She doesn't trust herself to keep her eyes dry once she starts, and she doesn't want to make Cassandra uncomfortable, for she is certain that any form of consolation would require the quiet whispering of lies, and that is something Cassandra would never indulge in.

(What Josephine longs to hear is something along the lines of "I will always return to you", but the world is too fragile, too unstable for that dangerous promise to be made, and so it would be safer if those words are left unsaid, or even unthought.)

And perhaps it is not just that; opening up about her troubles demands a confession of a whole different kind, for she knows by now that it is love that feeds her apprehension, and the need to let Cassandra know is growing with each day.

Sometimes she wonders why she hasn't handed over her heart yet, but up until now no moment has seemed private or pressing enough to make the truth spill from her lips. Perhaps she will finally put her feelings to words tonight then, because she cannot bear living with the idea that Cassandra doesn't know before the morning comes.

"I'm worried about what awaits our troops in the Western Approach, but I doubt that surprises you," Josephine says, and she breathes deeply, the invisible stone on her chest is too heavy to discard. What if tomorrow was the last time they saw each other? _What if?_

Josephine swallows.

"As much as I would like to elaborate, I am not quite sure if I am ready to speak about this yet. I will be. Soon."

"I will wait," Cassandra promises her, prepared to do anything to lighten the load, "and then I will listen."

"I know. Thank you," Josephine says, and takes Cassandra's hands in her own. "Let us go to bed. I find I-" she sighs, looking at their joined hands, "I just want to hold you for a while, before you have to leave tomorrow."

For one night, Josephine allows herself to be caged in a bubble outside of which the world temporarily ceases to exist. She knows all too well that this bubble will burst before the first rays of sunlight climb over the mountains, and then the fear will choke her again.

She guides Cassandra's hands to her shoulders, urging her to take the golden silk from around her neck and to pry her blouse's ivory buttons from their holes. With every touch of Cassandra's fingers against her skin, Josephine forgets a little more and breathes with a little less effort, but then Cassandra starts kissing her and she forgets how to breathe all over again.

Their kisses are all lips, all warmth. There is no crescendo, each kiss is as soft and measured as the previous one. Cassandra's hand strokes her side, and Josephine tries very hard not to laugh when fingers tickle her just underneath her ribs - she doubts Cassandra is doing it on purpose, and the moment is too precious to be ruined. Instead, she focuses on Cassandra's mouth, on the way her nose is pressed against her cheek, soft lips and endless kisses, one flowing into the next.

When Cassandra leans back to catch her breath, Josephine keeps her eyes closed. The hand is still warm against her side, but it is hitching now, a slow tremor that grows until Josephine can feel it in the rest of Cassandra's body where it presses into hers. The hand moves, up her side, across the swell of her breast, and comes at a final rest at her shoulder, fingers playing at the side of her neck.

“Josephine…”

On Cassandra's tongue her name is a confession, a wish, a plea, all at once. Josephine opens her eyes and finds Cassandra looking at her with delighted reverence - a look so telling that Josephine can’t help but hold her breath.

She brings her hand to Cassandra's face. Her thumb traces that prominent scar, from chin to cheek and back again. Josephine smiles, and Cassandra treats her with an even brighter expression of devotion that causes Josephine's heart to threaten to thump out of her chest.

It is precisely this sight that gives Josephine the courage to finally bring to words the feeling that has made her body hum without interruption for many weeks now. This, this is it. She can't think of a better moment, or of anything else to say.

“My love,” Josephine says, her voice trembling with the rhythm of her heart. It is not ' _I love you_ ', not verbatim, but it is close enough. Cassandra's eyes widen, and Josephine holds onto her stare.

"Yes,” Cassandra murmurs happily, weaving her fingers through Josephine’s hair like flowers through a garland. _"Yes…_ " she says again, voice cracking with joy, "my love, my…my Josephine."

Cassandra kisses her victoriously, their unspoken pact of temporary chasteness all but forgotten. Josephine lets Cassandra and her elation take over and hums against her mouth; she is soothed without knowing how or why. All she knows is that they have found a small moment of most-welcome happiness.

"It is so wonderful to hear you say that," Cassandra admits, and Josephine laughs freely. How can she not? The pressure that had been on her shoulders seems to have miraculously lifted, not vanished completely but temporarily held up by someone stronger than her deepest worries.

"Oh Cassandra," Josephine says, "you are a treasure, and I am so very lucky to have found you."

Cassandra just smiles, wedging her hand under Josephine's blouse and the ruffled edge of her chemise, seeking her collar bone with her thumb.

A few precious words and many, many gentle touches later, Josephine presses herself against Cassandra's back underneath warm blankets, curling her limbs around the taller woman. The fragile bubble around them slowly comes undone with every breath she takes against Cassandra's neck.

In the morning, when the last armor-clad soldiers have turned their back to the castle and the troops are no more than pinpricks against the landscape, Josephine still cries, as it had always been a certainty that she would. She waits until no one can watch her until her tears fall, her senses suspended in uncertainty, as she is left waiting, always waiting.

It takes a dread-filled forthnight for the relatively good news to arrive, but when it does, the pure, heartfelt relief makes her shed a tear or two as she realizes that perhaps the Maker is listening to her after all.


End file.
